


this

by lookingforatardis



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Confessions, First Person, M/M, Timmy POV, idk why i try tagging this stuff anymore, if i say anything else itll be ruined, in which elizabeth is side eyeing this whole thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 11:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13480704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: "I just can't do this anymore."Armie tells Timmy that whatever "this" is, it can't continue. Inspired by a conversation at grad school (lol, yes really) about how the appearance of wrongdoing can be just as damning as any action.





	this

**Author's Note:**

> Lol yes this really stemmed from an entire semester of talking about ethics in grad school in addition to my unhealthy obsession with these two lovers i mean losers i mean same. 
> 
> i do not own these people, they are real life humans with emotions and thoughts and i am not held responsible for any of this ever resembling any sort of truth. (is that a good enough please-dont-sue-me-if-you-find-this comment? i never know.)

"Listen man, I can't…I can't do this anymore," he says. The words don't really register, not at first.

"Do what?" I ask, almost laughing. I had no idea what he was talking about. Drink? Hang out? Talk?

" _This_ ," he says, gesturing between us. Oh. _Well_. This would be interesting. My eyes slip shut, my lungs pushing the air out in a short huff. I look back up with a mirthless smile ghosting my lips.

"There is no _this,_ " I say. "There's never been a _this_ ," I add, grabbing my drink and downing it. He looks to the side while clenching and unclenching his jaw. I sit there waiting for him to say something, but no words come out. I watch as he shakes his head slightly and sips his beer. He sits back and glances over their yard.

"I'm married, Timmy," he says after a few minutes have passed. He still doesn't meet my eyes, though this time I'm a little grateful. I know he'd see straight through me like he always did, and know there's confusion in my eyes; I knew he was married—this wasn't news to me. I don't understand where this is going—it wasn't like we were having an affair or anything. We'd kept it PG; hell, he didn't even feel that way and I wasn't sure I did either. Filming was one thing, but reality was another. "I just can't do this anymore," he says, finally looking at me.

"I don't understand," I tell him. The sound of a pool filter running combined with the ever present yet distant traffic fills the silence for us, the moon shining overhead. I could have written monologues to the silence, to the beat of my heart as it thumped steadily in my chest. I think back to the past few days, wondering if I had done something. I didn't think I had, but perhaps I was unaware of my actions and how they were being perceived. "Do you guys want me to leave? Is that it? Because I can, you know. It's not a problem," I tell him. I'd been staying with them for a week and I thought everything was fine, but they had busy lives and a part of me always felt like a burden.

"No, no it's not that."

"Then what?" I ask, shifting in my seat to better face him as I started to get frustrated. He stared at the ground, his right ankle rolling slightly as he took another swig of his beer. I fold my hands together in my lap and wait. He was clearly operating on his own timetable here, so I let him.

He sighs softly and glances at me, offering a pity smile I'd seen before but never directed at me. "Timmy, come on." I narrow my gaze at him and feel my head tilt, just slightly.

"Come on….?" I shake my head slowly in confusion. "Listen, you're going to have to give me more than that. What are you talking about?" I ask, growing exasperated.

"You're, you know." I look at him, eyes wide and lifting my brows. He rolls his eyes and lets out a breath, shifting in his seat. "You're in love with me, it's okay but it just, it's not-"

"Woah—hold on! That's what this is about? You think I'm _in love_ with you?" I ask, holding my hands up to stop him, horror washing over my face as I realize. Oh god, they thought I was in love with him. _Elizabeth_ thought I was in love with her husband, that's what this was about—oh my god. "I'm _not_ in love with you, Armie. Not that you're not awesome, but uh, I’m just…I'm just not," I say, looking down as my cheeks flush.

"Oh-kay," he draws out slowly. I steal a glance, finding him looking at his hands.

"Armie, I'm not in love with you," I repeat, trying to reiterate in his mind that this is a platonic friendship. This was quickly becoming a mess and I wasn't sure I could come out of it without this making things awkward for the rest of time. He had to believe me.

"Well, I still can't do this," he says.

"Do _what? What are you talking about?"_ I say, my voice growing louder as I sit on the edge of my seat, my hands reaching into the space between us to beg him to give me _something_ here. I wish we were back in Crema; back then, he'd just tell me what was on his mind.

"I don't know," he shrugs, equally exasperated. " _This_ , Timmy, I don't know what it is! The…god, _I don't know_. Tension, or whatever this is," he says, shaking his head and drinking, not meeting my eyes. I watch him, trying to decipher what he's saying. "Elizabeth noticed things were different this time when you visited and honestly, I didn't get it at first but she's right. Something's going on and it can't."

"You're not making _any sense_ ," I tell him, covering my face. I drop my hands and grab his knee. His eyes drop to my hand immediately and I say, "Seriously, Armie. I don't know what you're talking about. Is it how I talk or something? What is she mad about?"

"She's not _mad_ ," he says, still looking at my hand.

"Then what?" I ask, pulling away and sitting back in my chair. " _What_ , Armie? Just spit it out!" We'd never fought before, but I _would_ fight with him if he didn't start explaining himself.

He looks at me for a long minute and sighs. "You don't feel it?" he asks quietly. My heart stops. Numbness fills my bones as I blink once, twice, three times. "Never mind," he says, clearing his throat. He shifts in his seat and grabs his beer off the table. I watch him drink it, realizing I've made a mistake as recognition washes over me like a cold rain.

"Armie," I say.

"So, I was thinking we could go for a hike tomorrow. There's one I just found online that looks really interesting-"

" _Armie_."

"-and I was thinking you might like it because it has a pretty good view of the-"

" _Armie!"_ I say, my hand going to his knee this time, his words tapering out as he looks down for a brief moment before carefully looking up to meet my eyes. My mouth feels dry all of a sudden—the truth was, I _did_ feel it. The pull, the gravity. It wasn't love or anything, or at least it probably wasn't. I _hoped_ it wasn't. There was _definitely_ at least a _chance_ that it wasn't. It was always there, though, just kind of hanging out behind the scenes of every interaction we had. I'd become so used to it that I didn't notice it anymore. It made it so natural to touch him casually or lean on him, and it made him press his lips against my forehead when I did or rest his hand on my back—it was just _casual_ , it was _normal_ ; for _us_ , it was normal. No one ever said anything about it in Italy, and even when his wife came to visit she didn't say anything either…so it just kept happening. At a certain point, it stopped being in service to the film and started just being our fallback mannerisms around one another. It was so normalized that I didn't even think before bumping his leg with mine under the table or ruffling his hair when it got messed up on a hike or something. I didn't occur to me to question him tickling my side or wrapping his arms around my waist.

"It's messing with my marriage," he says quietly.

"Okay," I mutter, mirroring his tone. I pull my hand away from him and sit back, lacing my fingers together to keep from reaching out to him again. I count backwards from 10 to make sure I'll be steady when I speak again. "Does she want me to leave?"

"No," he answers quickly. "She adores you, she wants you to feel comfortable here. It's just…"

"It's just, she doesn't want me touching you," I offer.

"Yeah," he says, an awkward smile on his face. I nod and look down. I wasn't sure I could stop—I wasn't even aware half the time when I did it. I usually didn't realize until my face warmed or someone looked skeptically at me for the contact. As if it had meaning, as if – _oh god. As if we were lovers._

"She doesn't think.." I glance up, panicked. "She doesn't think we're sleeping together, does she?" I ask. I need to know, because if she did, that would be it. I'd pack up and leave—I didn't want her worrying about it, and I certainly didn't want to be the cause of them having any sort of problems. They were one of my only solid examples of a couple making it in Hollywood. They gave me hope. She couldn't think we were sleeping together. She just couldn't—if it were true, then, well. _No._ I can't even think about it, she just couldn't suspect, it would make everything worse.

"I don't know," he admits. Oh god, this was just great. "She says she trusts me, but sometimes—"

"Oh god, you grabbed my ass last night," I say, the panic doing anything but fade. I _knew_ that was a line, I knew it. We had been drinking—the three of us and a bunch of Armie and Elizabeth's friends. People were joking around and getting rowdy, dancing around outside. We were all just having fun and were pretty drunk and…he grabbed my ass. It wasn't a big deal—it was done in jest—but it was a familiar action from filming and I didn't exactly shy away from him. My lack of reaction—that's what did me in. The utter _lack_ of surprise at him grabbing me. Of course that would alarm her.

"Yeah, that's part of it," he says, scratching his neck. "And when you started taking your clothes off." _Shit._ I was hoping he wouldn't remember that.

"I was drunk!"

"You said 'It's not like he hasn't seen it all before,'" he says with a look in my direction. I sigh and look down, defeated. _Okay_ , so maybe it wasn't crazy for her to think something was going on.

"It's true," I offer, going for humor. I try not to think about how close I'd been to actually getting naked the night before, how I'd walked through their house stripping on my way to the guest room. I was surprised I even remembered it.

"That makes it worse!" he says, trying to force down the anxious laughter I can hear in his voice.

"She really thinks we're screwing?" I ask. He makes a face and rubs his eyes. It's quiet again, the moment silencing even the bugs outside, it seems. There's a sudden chill in the air and I wonder if I'm imagining it. Perhaps it's the way he twists the beer bottle on the table that sends the chill down my spine.

"I don't think so, but she thinks something's going on," he finally says. "She sees the glances, she says. She thinks I'm going to break your heart."

"I'm not in love with you," I tell him, believing it a little less this time.

"I know, I know," he mutters, nodding while keeping his eyes on the beer. Another silence. I wonder what he's not telling me, what's going on behind those thoughtful eyes. "She's the love of my life. She has to be, Timmy," he says.

"I know that," I tell him. This sounded an awful lot like the _I'm married_ comment from earlier, like an excuse to hide from whatever this was.

"I just need a little space between us," he admits. " _Physically_."

There were moments when we were together that not touching him felt so incredibly wrong that it literally pulled my focus. "Okay," I say reluctantly. I think about the interviews we have coming up, of the award shows, the photo ops. I think of Luca and how he would undoubtedly notice and ask about it. "Do you really think that's something we can control?" I ask cautiously. He glances at me and rubs the side of his face. He had some scruff, though not much; she wasn't a huge fan of it.

"I don't know." He looks down and shrugs. "I guess we'll have to find out."

"Won't that make it worse?" I ask. I'm not even sure what I'm saying as the words leave my lips, of what they mean; I know only that they're true. "Denying it…" I try, unsure of how to convey the feeling in my mind verbally. "Would that make us…" I realize the only way to explain myself is to acknowledge how badly I wanted to cross the line. I pause and look at him, hoping he knows what I'm trying to say so I don't have to speak.

"Want it more?" he offers, his gaze furtive when I try to meet it. I watch his fingers twist together and know he's anxious—it was a tick, one he was aware of but still did. Knotting his fingers together to avoid having to look up, or avoid conversation, to appear thoughtful, etc., when usually it just meant he was trying to hide something. I wait for him to look up before answering, and when he finally does it feels charged, something in it unsettling me more than anything has in months.

"Yes," I manage. "We might want it more." It's a lie—I can't possibly imagine wanting it _more._ I kept telling myself I wasn't in love with him, that this wasn't love…but I couldn't and wouldn't deny the attraction. It'd been this way since Luca had us rehearse the first kiss—the tension never went away. It was like this constant pull to be near him, and the more we filmed the stronger it got. I thought it would fade after we left Italy, but it seemed to be the same story every time we reunited. Denying the touch…I wasn't sure what that would do. I think to the longest we'd gone without seeing each other, how he'd held me for a solid minute before even saying hello. He didn't let me out of arm's reach for the entire day, and after everyone went to bed that night, we'd sat on my bed with our legs tangled up and talked for hours, my fingers absentmindedly traveling his legs, his own unafraid of brushing hair off of my face or catching my lip when I laughed too loudly. That was the one night aside from filming that I was positive I loved him. If we went through the next couple of months of awards trying to distance ourselves, it would be worse that than night, I was sure, simply because we would be denying ourselves on purpose. I knew myself well enough to understand that stopping my hands from going to his shoulder or leg or hair was going to make me insane, and I wasn't sure I'd even be capable of remembering to stop them.

"We have to risk it," he says, looking away from me and my prying eyes.

"Are you really willing to do that?" I'm not sure _I am_.

"What's the alternative, Timmy?" He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated sigh. "What do you want from me—she's nervous and I can't even blame her because every time you visit I can't stop myself from acting like a goddamn teenager." I want him to look at me, I want him to see that I don't mind when he touches me, that I wish he'd touch me more.

I want him to see that I think I finally understand, that I think I am finally accepting the reality of this situation, that I might _actually_ be in love with him because the mere thought of losing the little bit of him I get as is makes it hard to breathe. "Armie," I whisper. He shakes his head and keeps his eyes away from me, my jaw clenching in emotion. "If we stop, doesn't that give credit to her fears?" I'm grasping at straws, it's useless but I can't stop.

"If we don't, doesn't that make it worse?" he demands. I wish he'd look at me, I wish I could just see his eyes, damnit. I put my hand back on his knee, knowing it worked before, and sighing when his head falls forward a little, his eyes slowly closing and opening to meet mine. "Why are you doing this?" he asks softly. "Why are you fighting me?" I swallow hard at his questions, knowing in an instant he wants to stop as much as I do, which is to say he doesn't want this to stop at all, _whatever_ this was.

"Because I can." He rolls his eyes and I squeeze his leg, forcing him to look back at me. "Because _I can,_ Armie. You feel like you have to say this, I get it. But I can fight you. I can do that for the both of us." He pushes my hand away and looks down.

"You're making this more difficult than it needs to be," he says.

"Maybe," I reply. I look away and sigh. "But maybe this isn't something we can just stop. Think about it, Armie. Do you even realize when we do this? Because I _don't_. It's just natural, it just happens."

"It can't—"

"Okay, but it _does_!" I feel guilty for raising my voice, but I need him to hear me. He looks alarmed at my outburst, his eyes skirting around as if someone might notice our dispute, though we were alone out here. "I can't just let you shut this down, okay? I know she's worried but damnit, Armie, did you ever think maybe there's a reason she _should_ be? Not just on my part but on yours as well?"

 _"Of course I fucking thought about that."_ The intensity in his voice, the look in his eyes, the way his jaw is set—it makes me cold in an instant, something close to regret washing over me for pushing him. "I need you to do this for me. Okay? I need this to stop, or my marriage is going to fall apart. _Please_." He's scaring me, I don't remember ever seeing him look so distressed.

"Fine. Okay, yeah. I’ll stop," I relent. He nods and blinks a few times before releasing me from his gaze. I let out a breath and try to accept what I've just agreed to. I stand and walk away after a few minutes of silence, my fingers already itching to reach out to him.

At dinner that night, he sits on the other side of the table and I feel the distance deep in my soul. The next day when we go to a park, I have to fist my hands in my packets to stop from pushing him teasingly. At our group picnic, my legs ache from not being able to stretch out to touch his and when he ignores me most of the day, I have to hold back tears. When Elizabeth asks if I'm alright later that night, I force the bile down with a smile and say I'm just tired. I try to remember that he was hers first, and that I have no right to be angry. It doesn't work. After another day of torture, I tell them I'm going to be staying with a friend in LA that night, to which no one protests very much. When he calls around midnight, I answer from my friend's couch, exhausted. "You didn't have to go," he says, as if he suddenly cared.

"Yeah, I did," I tell him.

"She doesn't mind—"

 _"I_ mind, Armie. _I_ do." Talking to him hurt. It wasn't the loss of touch that was draining me—I wasn't a child, I could handle it. It was more like he had taken all the affection and casual beauty away from our relationship, and didn't give me any time to cope. It was immediate and painful and I didn't want to admit how angry it made me.

"I'm sorry," he sighs. I can see him running his hand over his face—I was sure he was doing it. "It's better this way—"

"For her, you mean." I try to calm down and remember that this isn't something I have a right to be upset over. If anything, she should be upset that he was calling me about it.

"Timmy," he warns. "It was a matter of time and you know it."

"I'm on a flight back to New York in the morning," I tell him, ignoring his comment. I was tired of talking about it, I didn't want to think about this anymore.

"What?" His voice is panicked and alarmed and I hate that there's a small part of me that's pleased with his response.

"Yeah, I figure it's better this way. A matter of time, you know?" I say, throwing his words back at him.

"Timmy—"

"Anyway, it was nice to see everyone. Give my regards to—"

"So this is how it's going to be? You're just going to ignore me? Run away?"

"You clearly don’t care about how _any_ of this affects me. So, if you're not going to consider how your actions hurt other people, then _yeah_ , Armie. _This_ is how it's going to be," I tell him, feeling my heart ache. I hated this.

"I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what to do!" I can tell he's trying to be quiet, but I can hear the distress in his voice.

"Okay, but you have to understand that it's killing me to be with you guys right now! Let me breathe, _please_." My voice shakes and I'm not even sure if it's from frustration or pain.

"I thought you said you didn't love me," he says quietly after a minute of tense silence.

"Maybe I lied," I throw back, my voice pensive. I listen to his breathing, think about all the times I caught myself staring at him in wonder and admiration and brushed it off. How many times I excused my own heart and blamed the movie for it beating only for him.

"Timmy," he sighs.

"I just can't be here, okay? You need to figure stuff out and so do I, and I don’t think we can do that together anymore. Not if she’s watching our every move." He's reluctant to accept my words but he does, eventually. When we hang up, I feel the distance between us grow. _I hate this,_ I think for the umpteenth time since our conversation a few days ago.

Returning to New York is a journey in itself now that I'm starting to get recognized. I smile for a few fan photos and hope they don't see the look in my eyes or how I keep checking my phone to see if he's texted me about my flight yet.

The text doesn't come. I should have expected as much.

Days pass and I start settling into a routine that doesn't revolve around him. It's lonely, but it's better than what it was—at least, that's what I tell myself over and over as I try desperately to sleep at night and fail. When day three comes around, I break down and call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. I wander around my apartment aimlessly in one of his t-shirts and sip down coffee like it's a basic necessity—it practically is, with how I've been sleeping. When the sound of knocking breaks the silence I'm engulfed in; I jump, the mug in my hand spilling over onto the floor. I wipe it up hastily and walk over to the door, opening it while plastering a façade of calm on my face.

My heart stops when I see him.

He looks like he hasn’t slept any more than I have. One hand is gripping the shoulder strap of a backpack while the other hangs limply at his side. His hair is tousled and eyes rimmed red, his cheeks flushed pink (though I'm not surprised, we didn't have an elevator that worked in this building). “So, as it turns out, I might be more reckless than we thought,” he says a little breathlessly.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, mouth agape. I couldn’t bring myself to hope just yet that his presence was indicative of something significant.

“I woke up yesterday and realized you were never coming back,” he swallows, his knuckles white against the fabric of the backpack strap. “It took me all of five minutes to realize I was an idiot—I’d have come sooner but I had a meeting yesterday.”

“Armie…” I let my voice trail off, shaking my head slowly. Oh god, there it was—hope. _Please don’t let me regret the hope._ I watch as he lets the bag drop from his shoulders and feel time slow down instantly with the action. Everything is in slow motion—the way he closes the distance, the desperate look in his eyes, the way his hands come to cradle my face, the fervent yet almost reverent way he presses his lips to mine, how my hands grip his shirt to pull him closer, the sigh that leaves my lips. He pulls back and strokes my hair, shaking his head slightly. "I love you, damnit I love you," he whispers.

"Are you sure?” I ask, my fingers twisting into the material of his top. He laughs softly and knocks his nose against mine.

“Do you want me to say it again? I. _Love._ You.” My entire body is alive with the words, his thumbs softly tracing along my cheekbones as he smiles fondly down at me. I’m overwhelmed, nothing had ever felt like this, not even Crema. Love. He _loves_ me.

“I love _you_ ," I sigh, pulling him closer by his neck and reconnecting our lips. God, this was what heaven would feel like. "Please don't leave," I whisper against him. He grabs his backpack and enters my apartment, tossing it on the floor before shutting the door by pressing me against it.

"I'm not going anywhere, not for a while," he says, pressing his lips to my jaw. "I need this," he murmurs, hands trailing down my body.

"I told you denying it would make it worse," I say, my voice airy and full of want. I loop my arms around his neck and nip at the skin near his ear. "Shoulda listened to me."

"Mmm," he hums, his nose skirting against my skin until he reaches my lips and presses his own against them hard. "I'll have to remember that—you're always right."

"Damn right," I moan, letting him move me towards the living room. I didn't really care that this was wrong. I didn't care he was married, I didn't care he had kids—I’d worry about that later. Right now, all I cared about was the way he fit against me and how my name sounded leaving his lips. Right now, it was just us.

I remember one time when I was a kid and figured out where my parents hid the Christmas presents. I told Pauline and asked if she thought I'd get in trouble for looking. She had smiled and told me that sometimes it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. I'm not sure Armie intended on either, to be honest—but I let myself believe as he presses me to the couch that maybe, just _maybe_ , Pauline was right.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading this, seriously. i have been in and out of tumblr and writing this week because grad school is kicking my butt and im hella distracted, so i appreciate yall supporting me. i love you guys <3


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